ArkAngel
by Kepouros
Summary: The woman who grows most of the food for Defiance desperately hides a secret that could alienate her from all of its citizens. She is assumed human, but what is she really? What has she got to do with the Gulanee: that strange, energy-based race too rare to be counted in the Votanis Collective? She just wants to do her job, keep a low profile. Her destiny has other plans...
1. Chapter 1

_The dream always starts the same. Ever since I was a child cognizant of dreaming, this sequence has permeated my slumber._

_First, there is utter darkness and the terror it inspired, like I'm trapped in a collapsed mineshaft. I feel squeezed on all sides, breathless with fear, like the moment of skin-prickling awareness before a beast's bite._

_Then, a pinprick of brilliant light dances into my vision._

_Another, and another. Swirling, they coalesce into a peaceable ball of soft white luminescence floating in the darkness. My fear abates, and I feel comfortable, like I'm in the tacit presence of a close friend._

_There is no sound. No movement. Only serenity as we regard each other, communing without expression. Just as the silence stretches thin and I reach for words..._

Noise on the other side of the wall dissolves the dream. I blink awake and immediately scowl.

"By the gods of all races," I growl into the cavern of my pillow. "Would you PLEASE - !" My bare foot connects with the wall. "SHUT!" Another pound. "UP!"

Until I moved into Defiance a few years ago, I didn't know that Liberatas were loud lovemakers. Or that I would be stuck with a particularly amorous mated pair as neighbors.

I snarl, folding my thin pillow over my head, trying to drown out the array of grunts, screeches, and hollers coming from the other side of the wall. "It's_ frak_-this-_shtako_-o'clock," I mutter, my voice muffled. More accurately, as the blue screen of my hailer corrects me, oh-five-hundred in the morning. "I give up," I whimper. Even if they wound down in time for me to catch another hour, I would never be able to fall asleep again, anyway.

When I sit up, my long, askew hair tickles my face annoyingly. "It wouldn't be so bad," I moan into the small cell of a room I call home. "If I knew which was female, and which was male."

The glow of my hailer screen illuminates the sparse, but cozy one-room apartment. My bed is against the (currently shaking) wall. I prefer my back to walls when sleeping, so that my subconscious will not interrupt me with fears of things sneaking up behind me.

My severely scuffed, extremely heavy wooden dresser came with the room when I took residence. It took me nearly breaking every toe in my foot trying to remove it to pay it respect. Now, it sits undisturbed against the other neighbors' wall, sprinkled on top with underwear, vials of seeds, and a healthy coating of dirt and dust. I liken it to an ancient alter, given wary bows or pointed ignorance.

In the corner is my cobbled chemistry set, with which I distill my own hair-curling version of absinthe, and the handful of books through which I learned to do so. Also on the table is a small bonsai red maple, and the book associated with that art. Books are hard to come by in this town, much less this world. But hungry townspeople are willing to trade anything for food, even the rare, singed tome from prewar libraries and the ruins of old homes. Though most books are worth some serious scrip to the snobby collector, these books are fairly worthless due to the randomness of the topics.

The only other piece of notable furniture in my room is my Chair. I attribute proper noun status to the Chair because it is mine, and it is perfect. Rescued from the trash pile outside the government building, every contour of the cushion, back, and armrests fits the profile of my lean, tall body to a 'T'. It is haphazardly matched with a crate-and-blanket footrest, where I prop my aching peds after a long day in the field. Beside it rests my basket of handspun yarn, with which I knit in the old tradition most of my heavier and more-used garments.

I'm beyond frustrated with the ruckus next door. Having been cheated out of what was left of my REM cycle, I fling back the holey quilt and channel the emotion into my daily upkeep.

My hairbrush is a hunk of clay I found and stabbed with straight twigs, the dull tips of which scrape my scalp comfortingly, though hurriedly. My hair is perpetually straight and smooth, in contrast to the craze of the bright color. I keep it hidden in a bun most days, but I can't bring myself to cut it off. Tying a scrap of cloth over my tamed head and getting dressed, I am ready to set out.

"Oh!" I backstep to snatch a pair of sunglasses off my dresser. "Hot mess, this morning," I mutter, sticking them on. Left uncovered, my eyes are an instant invitation of questions, undue curiosity - and more often, outright hate.

My skin color: believable.

Red hair: eyebrow-worthy.

Combination thereof: excusable.

My eyes: none of the above.

When I step under the flickering hall light outside my room, I nearly fall over the stacks of _shtako_ in the hallway, sprawling from my other neighbors' ajar door. I know what this is: eviction. I think the lovebird Liberatas next door and myself are the only long term tenants in this building.

The boxes are tied shut with twine, and even as I stand there thinking, two Sensoth males lumber up the steps from the ground floor and stop, patiently staring at me. I am under the impression the pair are brothers, and they've only been my neighbors for a month. In my mind, they are Mango and Orange, because my clandestine manner of living gives no quarter to introductions.

Backed into a proverbial corner, I have to be polite and make small talk.

"Hello, little one," the darker-colored Mango says, in that carefully slow way of the tall, furred race. "You are awake earlier than usual."

He's right: I aim to be up and in the field before Defiance is even stirring, to avoid people. The fact they're engaging me in conversation goes against every stride I take towards invisibility. "The neigh - erm, I couldn't sleep," I respond, eyes twitching to the stairs. The cause of my flight is still 'causing' noisily, but the deliberate Sensoths don't seem to mind. Motioning to the boxes, I ask, "Are you two moving out?"

"Yes," says Orange, whose fur reminds me of dried citrus peels. "Found a house near the trees." His relish is evident.

A genuine smile flows onto my face. "Ah," I reply. "The trees. Excellent." The Sensoths are arboreal in culture. They have a fondness for nature that makes it easy for me to like them as a species, which is why I employ a few around the farm. "Maybe I'll see you around the farm."

"Perhaps," agrees Mango.

I step around them as they heft the last of the boxes from outside their apartment. Bounding down the stairs, I flip off the noisy Liberatas' door. With my ire returning, I need to get out of this building before I take a pitchfork to their white whiskered faces. The fantasy comforts me as I stride down the hall with bleary eyes. Being as essential as I am to the town of Defiance, you'd think I could have a better place to stay.

Dreamily, I imagine the glimpses inside the homes of high-Liro Castithans I have acquired over the years. White, pristine interiors. Sumptuous furniture. And, if the general assent is correct, a bathtub that doubles as a swimming pool. "How much food do I have to grow to garner a free pass for maiming?" I muse with a snicker.

From what I understand, the newest Lawkeeper is kicking ass and taking names. I doubt he'd be game for letting me vent my pissyness.

"But what're they gonna do?" I chuckle to myself, thrusting the creaking door of my building open roughly. "Ship their main grower off to Vegas?"

The thought cheers me somewhat as I make my way across town to the NeedWant for breakfast. The sun is barely rising, but I greet it warmly all the same.

A road block for construction of some kind forces me to grind my teeth, my usual path disrupted. My only other option for getting to the NeedWant is through the merchant's corridor. "And I had been so eager to avoid people today," I sigh. With a tick of my jaw, I steel myself for the onslaught and reluctantly turn onto the street where the majority of the merchants set up shop.

The sellers of this town don't take the slumped, don't-bother-me posture of my walk seriously. Hell, I'd have to be Volge for them to refuse to pitch their wares to me. Halfway through, the deluge begins:

"Your skin is so lovely!" exclaims one human woman, dashing out of her booth to stroke my face.

I jerk back at her touch on my only exposed skin, but keep my tone polite, "Thank you, but - "

"A parasol for the lady?" she pushes, stepping in front of me to gesture at her wares.

"No, no thank you," I reply insistently, dodging her. By the time I feel bad, she is already onto another customer.

"Hairbrushes on sale!"

"Casti-made head scarves, excellent quality!"

"Tinted goggles, protect your eyes!"

Not good; they're advertising the qualities of myself I seek to hide. I bustle past them all, trying to stay small and unnoticeable. Unintentionally, they're picking apart my disguise: pale skin hidden by coveralls; my headscarf secreting my bright red, smooth hair; the sunglasses keeping my odd eyes out of sight.

"Used but not abused miner boots!" comes a strained voice.

I look automatically, forgetting my duck-and-run attitude, and see that it's a shockingly young human boy in front of Cuthbert's Shoemaker. His voice sounds strained because he's trying to stabilize a tall, heavy shelf jammed with shoes. As the shelf leans, groaning, towards him, the boy cries out and throws up his arms. My chest squeezes. He's going to be crushed!

I move before I can think, catching the gargantuan shelf across my back and shoulders. A grunt escapes me as I settle on the power of my legs.

It happened so quickly, it takes me a moment to catch up. "Are you alright?" I ask the boy, eyeing him critically.

He has uncovered his face and is gaping from the shelf, to me, and back again. "You're... you're really strong," he remarks in awe.

_Shtako._ I'm attracting unwanted attention; murmurs from the nearest booths and a handful of customers. Bouncing 'ass in the grass' with a shrug and lift, I right the shelf and walk briskly out of the booth.

"Th-thank you!" calls the boy.

I don't look back or respond. I just aired my freaky strength in public. _"Banggo," _I snarl under my breath. My easiest trait to hide, and I flaunted it without thinking. Humans don't do what I just did, lift what I just lifted. "Way to blow cover," I mutter in self-derision. "Stupid, stupid."

A sigh of relief passes my lips as I make it through the corridor without further incident. I take a moment and lean against a scarred brick wall, collecting myself. I'm sweating, even though it's still cool out. My heart is pounding, like I've run a mile. I feel blushy, but pale. _That was too much attention for comfort._ "Today's just not my day," I conclude, rubbing my forehead.

Scrubbing my face wearily and pushing off the wall, I almost trip over the ragged, stained Castithan drunkard passed out in the street.

I should keep going. It's too damn early for this _shtako_. And I try to walk on, I do. But my conscience pangs me, knowing how harsh Casti social code is.

"Hey, buddy!" I whisper pointedly, nudging his foot with mine. "Hey!"

The drunk snorts out of sleep, blinking silver eyes up at me dazedly. His irises are the same shade as my left eye, I realize with a disconcerting jolt.

"Yeah, I know the feeling," I sympathize, crouching beyond his grimy toes. "You might wanna get off the street. Someone'll pull caste on you, or something."

He blinks again, then proceeds to vomit to the side.

"Ugh!" I exclaim, standing bolt upright. "Yuck, man! Just gross!"

"Stinky...human..." wheezes the drunk, pulling an obscure bottle out of nowhere to take a slug.

He obviously can't see past my disguise, squinty as he is. I should be happy about that. But for a moment, I'm caught utterly off guard. Human? Farthest thing from the truth. Freak is closer. To be called human is a good thing... but it pains me to hear it spoken.

I play at being a human, but the reality is much more dangerous.

"Who... who you callin' stinky, pal?" I retort, finding my voice. My civil duty is rapidly nearing its end. But in the name of thoroughness, I lift an arm and check, surreptitiously wiping my eyes. "Crawl into an alley," I snap. "Before you get publicly cleansed."

The drunk is swaying to his hands and knees, scoffing. He mutters something scathing in Castithan that I can't quite make out, but it has the word _enyasho_ in it.

"Yeah, you too," I reply curtly to his wobbly backside, which disappears behind a heap of trash between buildings.

With a forceful exhale, I walk on. "That's what I get for being nice," I berate myself. Walking rapidly from the scene, I try to outdistance my suddenly roiling emotions. The number of close calls this morning is staggering, in comparison to my usual low profile.

The NeedWant is still another five minutes away, and I've wasted enough time. It only serves a limited breakfast to alleviate the strain on the Café, and it's not as good, but it's way cheaper. Plus, if I play my cards right, Kenya Rosewater will take flowers in trade for a few meals.

By the time I turn the final corner, some wives are flapping laundry out onto the lines and a handful of late partiers are making their shambling way home. I bang through the door of the NeedWant. _Finally, some _good_ luck. _The miners haven't come off the night shift yet, so the bar/brothel is empty. I can relax marginally.

The two lovely, scantily dressed door greeters lightly caress me and murmur invitingly, but I smile my decline and brush past them. Kenya is behind the bar, taking stock of the booze with a clipboard.

"_Frak_ me sideways, Kenya," I moan, sliding into a barstool.

"It'll cost you," she replies flippantly, turning to smile at me. It's an old joke between us, though we're not terribly close as friends. Hell, she's 'friends' with everybody, in one way or another. She runs her business, and I run mine, and we have little interaction besides. I mean, I could pay her to have some chat time with me, but that defeats the purpose, in my mind.

"Is there still some protein on the griddle? Or am I too late?" I ask. Weighing taking off my sunglasses against the streak of issues from this morning and the oddness of keeping them on indoors, I decide to remove them, keeping my eyes downcast. Kenya is discreet, anyway. She's one of a handful of people that know what I am.

"Last I checked, there was," she says, putting down her clipboard to slide a cup of coffee to me. I've heard the coffee of this time is nothing compared to pre-war. I should know: I grow the roots for this blend. We make ours out of burdock, chicory, and dandelion roots, with some dubious substances for jolt thrown in. In short, it's like drinking turpentine and dirt. Only Earth Republic people have a prayer of getting ahold of the rare coffee beans grown for their ruling class, and it costs a kidney and firstborn child to buy.

"You need more flowers today?" I ask, blocking out the taste of the hot beverage. Swallowed artfully, the dirt has no time to settle on the tongue.

Kenya points to the broken bottle on the bar, the jagged edges of which are hidden by the drooping petals of some zinnias. "Looks like they're on their last leg, so yes, please."

I could sigh with relief. "Same as before?"

"Breakfast for the week," she agrees, leaning her ample cleavage over the bar. I may be heterosexual, but I take an appreciative eyeful, anyway. "Unless you'd like to trade for something _else._"

I give her a wry grin. "I'm saving myself for marriage, but thanks."

She tips back her head and laughs, and I join in. The sound banishes my earlier frustrations, but distantly reminds me that my little secret is not conducive to marriage. _Freak..._

"For once, we're up at the same time," I comment as Kenya continues to take stock.

"Working girl's got a job to do," she says, winking a heavy lash over her shoulder. "What's your excuse?"

"Ouch, _zing_," I reply with a chuckle. Kenya knows how hard I work. Sometimes, she is forced to put a reed in my drink so I can suck the beverage up in lieu of using my work-swollen fingers. Bless her. "No, the neighbors woke me up."

"Again?"

"Like a pack of saberwolves on the full moon," I groan. Having landed in the relative safety of the NeedWant, the tumble of emotions from my walk resurface. I continue in a softer voice, "And to top it off, a Casti drunk called me human this morning. Didn't see _that_ coming."

"Shouldn't you be happy about that?" she asks, matching my volume.

"Well, yeah, but..." I don't finish because, despite the hot coffee, my throat has closed up with sudden tears.

Once again, Kenya turns and puts down the clipboard. This time, when she leans over the bar, there is no seduction in it. "Oh, Betta, I'm sorry." Her hand covers mine, and the skin contrast is startling: my paleness and her pinkness. I resist the instinct to shake my sleeve down, to cover my gleaming white flesh.

I shrug derisively. "What's an abomination like me gonna do about it?"

Kenya's hand tightens. "You are _not_ an abomination."

"Half-Irathian, half-Castithan," I say, clenching my teeth around the all-too-familiar loathing. I let the full force of my mismatched gaze land on her: one silver eye, one gold. "I'm either a rape baby, or an abomination. I chose abomination," I assert with angry defeat.

To her credit, my friend doesn't flinch from my stony look. "Maybe your parents knew something you still don't," she says forcefully. "They knew this world would grow to accept you, and that you would find a place in it. Defiance is that place. Your farm and job are that place. Hey," she gets my attention. "My NeedWant is that place."

"Then why is it, whenever I look someone in the face, I see their mistrust and suspicion?" I counter.

Kenya has no response for that beyond a squeeze of my hand.

I thumb a tear from the edge of my eye, trying to compose myself for the second time in an hour. "It just hurt. Out of nowhere, the thing I pretend to be, the one thing I want most in the world blindsides me, and I can't have it. It's not real." Squeezing her hand back, I say softly, "Thanks for listening, Kenya."

The proprietress lets go of me with a tender smile, and sashays around the bar. "I'll be right out with your breakfast, Betta."

I stare into the murky brown depths of my mug, wishing it was big enough to swallow me.

By the time Kenya returns with my food, I am mostly over my angst. I've stolen her pen and am writing out a list of tasks for the day in my notebook. The paper is half full.

"Can I bring the flowers by on my deliveries?" I ask, picking up a stick of meat to scrutinize. "Or do you want them sooner?"

"Before the evening shift gets off, please," Kenya replies.

I snicker around my mouthful. "Gets off from the mines, or _gets off_, the other way?"

She laughs and smacks my arm. "Naughty girl."

"You practically handed me that one, m'dear."

Some more people are starting to file in to be served, in a variety of ways. A bored Castithan man gets promptly met and escorted upstairs by a pixie-winged Night Walker. A sooty female miner shares a heavy kiss with a waitress, but only orders a shot of alcohol. A trio of human kids start up a game of cards in the corner, sure to attract other players throughout the day.

More people could mean more problems for me, the way today is going. "I'm off," I say, draining my coffee and swiping my last meat stick to go. "Flowers, today," I confirm.

"See you then!" Kenya says cheerfully.

I thrust the doors aside and step out of the shady interior of the NeedWant into the glare of the morning. The streets are now barreling towards full swing: hawkers praising their wares, children crying in arms or whining as they follow their parents, motorbike and roller engines growling, the scents of the first meal of all cultures mingling.

On a radio somewhere, the Gateway Arch is broadcasting a song:

_"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood,_

_A beautiful day for a neighbor,_

_Won't you be mine?_

_Could you be mine?"_

I think it was a theme song to a children's television show, almost a half-century ago. I whistle along as I turn my boots to the southeast, blending into the crowd with the help of my tinted glasses, my haircover, and the ignorance of the populace.

* * *

**Author's Note: Okay! So, I love this show, and I enjoy the array of cultures and such it provides. It's a veritable feast for a writer: such a shame there's so few fanfictions in the fandom. **

**I know there's no visible plot yet. This was a setup chapter, and a way for me to test the water, the response.**

**Tell me if I do it justice, please. Interested? Want more? **


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I read on the Defiance Wiki that there are 6,000 residents in the town, 40% of which are Votan. That said, no single farm could scratch out enough crops to provide for all. Betta's farm is not oversized, but right-sized, according to the principles of organic growing the new world is forced to abide by, as well as the fair-labor exchange according to an unhindered economy. :)**

**Betta's farm, like the others that will come to light, is tied to the government in a semi-communist system. She provides mostly for the human clientele, and there are others who grow for the Votans. But that will be explained further in Ch. 3.**

* * *

My path meanders out of town and past the suburban-like Sensoth settlement, where I am forced by politeness to return the wave of one of the orange males walking his little dog. The trees so eagerly sought and beloved by most cultures swallow me for several minutes of peace, and then open startlingly to my fields.

For a moment, I put my hands on my hips and survey the orderly rows of crops steaming lightly in the morning sun. The staple maize has jumped another six inches seemingly since I last looked at it, all twenty acres of flour and five of eating.

Beyond it is the other main staple of Defiance: potatoes, and even from here I can see the red-orange tinge on a few leaves, signaling the onset of a pest beetle. We'll need to spray some Stank on them today, nip the invasion in the bud. Another twenty-five acres of crops to add to the list of care.

Some eighty acres of grain wave in the farthest distance beyond them, and I reflect gratefully on the ease with which this strain of bar-wheat grows. In a month, that'll be an all-hands-on-deck harvest marathon, and my spine will refuse to forgive me for at least a week.

The wall of wild flowers that I've encouraged for years along the edge of the woods makes an attractive area for pollinators. I'll pick Kenya's arrangements from that later this evening.

There are ten acres of miscellaneous kale, lettuce, root crops, alien fruits/vegetables and such, which need daily rotational picking. I always save that for afternoon, so that by evening the crops are sitting in the cool delivery barns in town awaiting the next day's selling.

The beans are a pain in my nonexistent balls. I've babied and loved and pleaded with them, but they've not set blossom, which means no beans to pick later down the road. They sit on five acres that, if the weather doesn't improve in the next two weeks, I will have to till under and replant with something useful. That would put a serious dent in the food supply for the year, but if worst came to worst, I would throw down some successions of quick greens, packed with nutrients.

I take out my notebook and make a note of this backup plan, calculating the pounds of seed I'll need to get from storage, the time needed to implement it, and the wages of the workers I'll need to pay. The numbers draw a heavy sigh from my lips. Per capita, greens just don't have the raw protein I need to deliver to the Defiance food stores, upon my employment contract. Caloric value wouldn't hold up, either. "Could I squeeze in one more round of potatoes in time?" I murmur to myself.

"Squeeze what?" comes a voice behind me.

"Shtako!" I yelp, whirling. A heavily beaded Irathian woman in an asymmetrical skirt is standing a few feet from me, smiling sheepishly. "Dammit, Kara!"

"Sorry!" Kara exclaims, taking a step back. "I thought you heard me walk up."

"I did not," I growl, bending to retrieve my pen and pad. "Try coughing or something. I will put a bell on you," I threaten. She's the closest thing I have to a right-hand woman, but her kitty paws get on my nerves. She and I are more partners than friends: Kara worked under my predecessor, and she doesn't know my secret.

Kara rolls her violet eyes skyward, an expression picked up from her human boyfriend, no doubt. "What's today's list?"

I rip the sheet from my notebook, handing it to Kara. "Start with this. Who else is behind you?"

"The whole gang made it, I think," she replies absently, reading.

I blink behind my shades. "Seriously?" I have a floating staff of about fifty, and an average daily crew of about ten. I do not schedule them myself, it would take too much headache. I have made it known that twenty warm bodies must arrive to work every morning and stay for at least eight hours, not that I ever get that many. I leave the rest up to them. They come and go in accordance to how much money they need, and I only keep track of their hours. Once a month, I get a surge of everybody showing up to work on payday.

"Uh-huh. I heard about twenty sets of feet. They should be showing up right about – " she pauses, glancing over her shoulder. " – now."

My motley crew comes into view on the trail, cutting up and making their morning chatter: two Irathians, three humans, two Castithans, six Liberatas, a random Indogene, and six Sensoths. Twenty in all, my fullest crew in a couple of weeks. Their hoeing tools are mostly carried safely on their shoulders, but a few come close to whacking each other as they walk. The Sensoths are lugging the delivery carts and empty crates, which we will fill later and take to my personal booths in town to sell.

The array of races is strange, even for Defiance. Since starting this job, I have dropped many stereotypes attributed to each species. Castithans, for instance, are hard workers if motivated by the importance of the task. Sensoths always work quicker if they talk or sing. Iraths prefer a light supervisory hand, but enjoy racing to finish a job. Liberatas are perfectionists to a fault, if not encouraged to hustle.

A part of me wonders which of these race categories I fall into, but I violently thrust the thought aside. The Casti drunk from earlier made me feel like reality called my bluff, exposed me. I am (disguised as) human, dammit. But it's hard, as it always has been, to make the disguise stick in my mind when every glance in a mirror reminds me of the truth.

I'm fed up with the existential bullshtako today.

I muster a grin as the crew comes down the trail, reaching out to tug on one of Kara's beaded braids affectionately. "Who'd you threaten?"

"Just Deyobo," Kara says, referring to the Indogene sluggishly taking last place. "But more on principle than anything."

I chuckle and wait for them to fan out around me in a semicircle, then raise my voice to address them. "Good morning everybody!"

There is a general murmur of reply, a few yawns, and one noncommittal whoop, but it's still early.

"Kara and I will be leading teams of ten, and we'll be tackling weeding the sixth quadrant. That's a half-acre apiece. If everyone works hard, we'll be done in three hours."

They groan and bitch, but answer when I take roll, calling out names rapid-fire and pointing to either myself or Kara to distribute teams.

"The time is oh-seven-hundred. Everyone got a hoe? Let's get to work."

As the sun finally crests the trees to the east, it finds a score of oddly mismatched beings bent to their work, singing 'Ride Captain Ride' because someone heard it on the Arch radio this morning. I sing too, because everyone is far enough away not to comment on my horrendous pitch.

I sweat to finish first so I can arrange the next task, and succeed. Everyone finishes within ten minutes of each other, and as they come off their last row, I direct them each to a crop.

"Traeyon," I say to the first Liberata to complete his half-acre. "There are 500 pounds of kale to pick today. Grab the next person to finish and get started, please."

He bobs his whiskered head, characteristically obedient, and takes off on his stubby legs, picking up a slender Castithan man on the way.

"Mamello," I address my tallest Sensoth. "I want you to pick the Ginger Gold apples. You know which ones?"

"Cream colored," he replies slowly. "Tart tasting. Southernmost trees."

Again with the tree fetish. For the love of Irzu... "That's them. Grab two more tall people and get going, please."

The humans Cathy, Raoul, and Mateo complete their rows at the same time. I direct them to the season's first squash and peppers, extracting from them vows of gentleness with the fledgling plants.

As they take off, I am tapped on the shoulder by a white, scaled hand. Stifling a sigh, I turn. "Yes, Deyobo?'

"I feel sick," the Indogen replies stiffly, in their closed-lipped manner of speaking. "It's the heat."

He always tries this shtako, so I'm prepared. "From a Daribo native, I find that excuse thin," I reply curtly, referring to the desert planet from which he hails. "If you need some water and ten minutes' rest, then take it. Your assignment today is the herb plot, weeded and picked."

He huffs, drops his hand from his stomach, and walks off without a word. I would send somebody with him, but they would wind up doing all the work. Instead, I assign his friend, a burly Irathian male named Borush to work within earshot harvesting winter's last rutabagas.

Everyone else gets a bucket of Stank from the large plastic drum in the corner of the field, a pine tree frond, and orders to coat the potato fields with the foul-smelling mixture using the whippish branches. Stank is my own mix of macerated garlic, crushed neem tree pieces, and pyrethrum flowers (which resemble daisies). These ingredients were all organic solutions for old Earth crop infestations, according to my books. It was simply a matter of growing them, pounding them into a gross paste with two rocks, and letting it steep in its sunny tank all winter. A batch lasts us all year. I apply Kara to the Stank crew as team leader.

"Thanks, boss," she says sarcastically, tying a scarf around her mouth and nose.

"I appreciate it," I reply. I mean it; this stuff can make you smell for days, if you get it on you.

As they head off with their smelly loads, I slip out of boss mode with a slump of my shoulders, my hand screwing down the barrel tap. Being around people, with all of them looking to me as the head grower, goes against my grain of secrecy and invisibility. I took this job because it was the first hint of security I'd ever had. It had tempted me out of the shadows.

In retrospect, I wonder what I had been smoking. But Mayor Nicky saw something in me.

Some part of me has always had an instinct for growing things, even though only my half-Irath blood suggests an affinity. In my youth, I bounced around the farms in the area as a labor hand, learning all I could. I can remember sinking grubby fingers into the ground, into the fibrous embrace of the root world, and the smell of the soil would speak to me.

Those times were peaceful, though untethered. I could use a dose of that right now.

I drop to one knee to scratch up a handful of dirt, bringing it to my sensitive nose. Closing my eyes on the inhale, I pick apart the scents. Leaf mold, from our autumn batch of compost. A little sulfur, from the spring pH adjustment. And a certain sweetness that makes a smile curl my lips: aerobic reaction; the sign of an oxygenated soil structure.

"'Nough moping," I mutter. I assign myself to the onions, letting the poignant allium permeate my nose. The onion patch is about two acres, and closest to the break area with its natural, clean groundwater spring. I position several bins at the end of my picking rows, then fill a smaller basket with dirt-smeared, fragrant onions, and walk that basket to the nearest bin. Steadily working for two hours, with a quick break to walk around and touch base with my workers, makes short work of my 400 pound quota.

I can lose myself in the rhythm of work, the steadiness of my breath. Since I'm once again alone, I strip the sleeves of my coveralls and tie them around my waist, leaving my stark white skin exposed to cool with sweat. My undershirt is a bra-like piece of clothing of my own design and make: fitted to my form, supporting, and breathable. As always, I am happiest alone.

Lunch time comes before I know it. I require everyone to take a thirty-minute break at twelve hundred hours, but I am only one basket from finishing my row, so by the time I approach the break area, the rest of the crew has already gathered to eat in the shady grove.

I am just about to break through the brush and join the crew for lunch when I realize with a sick feeling they are talking about me.

"See how pale she is?" gabs a Casti female. "I know skin like that, I have it!"

"But she's obviously human," interjects Kara, ever loyal. "She says so."

"Half Casti, half human, then?" muses a Sensoth languidly. Oral traditions extend to gossip, apparently.

"Impossible!" snorts one of the Liberatas, smacking on his drink. "You've seen that red hair, she's Irathian."

"She is far from a follower of Irzu," snorts a Irathian male. "She has no markings."

"That you can _see,_" corrects his mate, tracing her own whited brow. "The marks would not show, anyway."

"So what if she's half Irath, half human," cuts Kara dismissively, obviously trying to put out the conversation. "It doesn't matter. She's the boss. Most of us have seen halfbreeds before. It's rare, not a miracle."

"It does matter," Deyobo pipes up. "Why would she hide her mixed blood? Shame, that's why," he finishes with a sneer.

"If Betta says she is human," hisses Kara, finally losing her temper. "Then that is what she is. Why would she lie? Being a mixed breed is not - "

"It's a disgrace!" barks the Casti male, thrusting his grimy finger across the clearing at Kara. "Humans and Iraths? Acceptable. Humans and Castithans? Acceptable. But Irathians and Castithans being mates, much less having a bastard child, is far from respectable."

My friend chucks her remaining food across the clearing, hitting the Casti man's chest with a glop of porridge, and stomps away from the group, red hair and beads flying.

The absence of my singular ally does not dampen the conversation.

"She could be half-Casti who dyed her hair," pipes up Cathy, biting into her sandwich.

Raoul squints his graying eyebrows together, putting down his apple with a labored sigh. "As a human," he drawls, garnering the attentive respect due his age. "I don't think she's of my species. Not completely. She talks and walks like one, but there's something about her that don't sit right."

I carefully backtrack until I am sufficiently distanced, then drop to my knees in the onions. My tears wet the ground, but I sob in silence. I always cry in silence.

God forbid, I attract attention.

* * *

I walk into the NeedWant later than evening, the setting sun chasing my heels. Walking through the calm-before-storm brothel, I plunk a bucket of flowers on the floor at the waist-high door to the circular bar.

"Hey, Betta!" greets Kenya, wiping down the bar top. "How was your day?"

I can't answer her with words. My throat is still swollen with fighting back tears.

I simply shake my head, sunglasses flashing in the light of the Gulanite pods hanging as sconces from the ceiling.

My - friend? - frowns harlot-red lips sympathetically, but doesn't push. "I'll see you for breakfast," she says, tone soothing.

I turn on my heel and leave, stifling my heaving sob with my hand at the tenderness of her words. Why would she, or anyone else, be kind to me?

I am spectacularly unloved.

* * *

That night, the only sleep I get is long enough to dream.

The pinprick of light comes, and more gather around it, and then it surges forward to envelope me in blinding luminescence. I have been having this dream since I was a child, and this is deeper than any of my dreams have gone. I struggle against its hold fearfully, rail against the mental chains. The walls keeping me dreaming don't even register my struggles. I might as well be trying to break free of my own skull.

I am dragged deeper.

The lights abate like a snowstorm, leaving me reeling, invisible and bodiless, in a hexagon-shaped room.

I know what this place is: as a child, I played in many an Arkfall wreckage, and the control rooms were always shaped like hexagons, by the design of the Indogens who built them. Cold metal, plasma screens, the thrumming core of the ship all cast a harsh, eerie glow on the place, gleaming off the scaly skin of those who operate the vessel.

The Indogene commander stands at the center of the holographic control sphere, pulling hexagons out, twisting his hands creatively, and slotting them back into place. His hands and eyes show the faint shadowing patches indicative of neural augmentation just below the skin.

"Commander," says one of his subordinates, dressed in a sharp uniform. They speak their own language, but somehow, I understand them. "We're ready."

The commander turns and nods curtly, stepping out of the holographic sphere, and adopts a neutral yet powerfully authoritative stance while his captains stand on either side.

The door pneumatically hisses open, and in floats a ball of exquisite light. The same type and texture of light that haunts my dreams. This ball is free-floating, but flanked on either side by an armed Indogene cadet.

=Peace=, the ball of light's 'voice' echoes around the room, seemingly without source or sound. The Indogenes stiffen noticeably. =I, and my people, wish you no harm.=

"Gulanee," addresses the Commander in a typical monotone. "How may we name you, during our talks?"

=I have many names,= responds the energy-based alien. =For I am not one, but many. Y'Bak will suffice.=

"We were unaware the gas planet of Gula was populated with sentient beings, Y'Bak," says the Indogene, sounding remotely apologetic. "Please excuse our intrusion. I am Commander Tai, of the Votanis Collective ArkBuild Fleet."

=ArkBuild?= echoes Y'Bak, with what sounds like a hint of mirth.

Commander Tai pauses a beat, clearly not expecting the 'laugh' of his alien guest. "The Collective is in the near-complete process of building Arks, to ferry people of every species through 5,000 lightyears of hypersleep."

=With what as your destination?= queries Y'Bak, with a mental ripple something like a chuckle.

"A planet in the inner edge of the Orion Arm of our galaxy, which our data assures is hospitable to all of our kinds." The Indogene commander adopts an even straighter posture. "Had we known your planet was occupied, we would have begun arrangements sooner. Our timeline now cannot afford to be delayed, for the sake of all the lives on Daribo, Irath, and Casti. As such, we are prepared to negotiate with you and your people for permission to mine your planet for Gulanite."

Y'Bak's aura seems to flutter with the deluge of merriment that pours from it. Feeling the effect was something between one experiencing laughter, and remembering the sensation later. It went on for a full minute, and the cadet Indogenes shifted uncomfortably on their feet, casting furtive glances to their cool leader.

When the 'laughter' finally subsides, the Indogene steps forward a pace, hands folded behind his back, a grave expression on his gray-white face. "You know the Vontanis star system is on a collision course."

The Gulanee Y'Bak's aura seems to regress, but not much. =We have sensed it for some time.=

"With Gulanite as the power source for our Arks, we can also see to it that your people are saved from the coming cataclysm."

=This is where my amusement stems,= replies Y'Bak. =Being the conglomerate of many and the representation of all my people, I know that fewer than a thousand will desire to go with your exodus.=

The Commander, Captains, and every white-scaled being in the ship shows the minute signs of categorical, universal confusion. "Do you not want to save yourselves?" queries Commander Tai in disbelief. "Our scanners indicate that is less than ten percent of your populous!"

=We will not die in the cataclysm to come,= assures the ball of light. Y'Bak sounds incredibly convincing.

"I do not understand," manages Commander Tai. Clearly, he is not used to this feeling. "How?"

=We have our ways,= replies Y'Bak. =Secret, sacred ways accessible only to the Gulanee. However, we will require passage for those of us willing to leave.= His essence seems to separate for a moment, flowing outwards. Once again, I recognize the pinpricks of light that stalk my sleep. Y'Bak is not joking: he is the conglomerate of many of his kind; each small candle's flame a piece of his fellow Gulanee. =My people agree to assist you in mining Gulanite,= says the voice, overlapped many times, tones, and timbres. It is the voice of a nation, from the mouth of one. =On the condition that we are fitted with suits that will enable our energy-based beings to live on this harbor planet, and safe and complete passage for those of us who wish to go.=

The Commander's pale face glows brighter in the wake of this statement. "Then we are in accord."

* * *

I fall out of the dream, seemingly through my ceiling, causing my body to 'bounce' off the bed. I flail back the covers with a yelp, panting, sweaty as hell.

The darkness of my room is lit only by my Bunsen burner's flame under a boiling flask, signaling the newest batch of my absinthe is ready.

I whip out of bed, feeling bone-tired but wide awake, and wobble over to the cooking booze to pour a glittering green draught. The herbs floating in it remind me of skeletal remains, and I shudder, turning the flame off.

My hailer tells me it's just after midnight, and even though my brain feels like a damp washcloth is over it, I know I will be getting no more sleep tonight.

With a jittering leg, I fall into my Chair to nurse my drink. As my mind turns over and over the all-too-real disconcerting dream, the silence of Defiance's streets is periodically broken by a drunken whoop, an anonymous shriek, or the cry of some night creature.

"It was real," I whisper into the darkness of my room. "It had to be. I saw every detail, knew every name."

But how? What connection did it have to the balls of light that steeped my dreams?

No: they were no longer just 'balls of light'. Somehow, having never laid eyes on one before...

I knew I had dreamed of Gulanee my entire life.


	3. Chapter 3

Two days after the eavesdropping incident, I am still in flagging spirits. Early tomatoes, potatoes, and corn need picking today, requiring five, ten, and five people respectively. As it is, I get three, seven, and three. Everyone follows orders, but the wind is gone from my sails. I can't muster iron to argue with Deboyo when he begs off after an hour of potato digging.

I take his place, stabbing the digging fork into the ground with ferocious intent, working every ounce of angst out of my body with each stroke.

I haven't slept since I overheard them talking about me, except to dream that bizarrely real dream. My brain won't shut off. I shotgunned several ounces of my homemade absinthe at night, trying to find unconsciousness, but it just makes me more anxious. It is a constant mental game, the repetitive circle of thoughts in my skull.

Is my accursed hair too bright? I should just cut it off, already! But I've got some pleasant memories tied to my hair: I don't want to give them up. I chuck the rendered potatoes into a waiting bin, dragging it closer. _Disgrace..._

Am I tan enough to pass as human? Hardly, but pale skin is hereditary in some humans. _Bastard child..._

Let's not forget my weird strength, closer to that of a Sensoth than any other Votan. _Shame..._

I've been here three years. Has it been too long? Has anyone come to suspect, beyond reasonable doubt, that I'm not what I say I am?

I've got to let this go, or I'll fall into insanity. More so than usual.

That dream a few nights ago has repeated itself every time I close my eyes, be it in daytime flashbacks in the space of blinks or nighttime attempts to sleep. I have come to the conclusion that I am dreaming a past event, and somehow, that neglects to comfort me. How can I dream of something far before my birth?

I'm fairly lost in thought when the fool Castithan on the other side of me stabs his fork through my right hand.

I scream in surprise and pain, jerking the fork backwards by the handle out of reflexive instinct. The outermost tine pierced my palm completely, almost dead center. I can see through my hand, sickeningly.

Stumbling to my feet, I howl again, cradling the hand. My blood is wetting my sleeve, and it's -

Oh, no.

My blood is pale _pink._

"Are you alright?"

"Miss Betta!"

"What's wrong, boss?"

"What happened?

"Argh, the fork stabbed me," I grit out, trying to hide the obvious color of my blood. This is bad, this is so very bad, only Castithans have pink blood, oh no...

"Give it here," Kara demands, appearing at my elbow. "Now, quick!"

The crew is converging, I have no choice. I extend the wet palm, and she quickly wraps it in one of her scarves, knotting it over the wound. I'm shaking, but I manage to look at her face.

Kara is cool, calm, and collected. "Nothing major, just a hole," she soothes. "You won't have any trouble making it to town." To the handful of workers who rushed over, she says dismissively, "It's fine, just a little injury. Back to work." Then, to those further away but staring, she hollers, "Back to work!"

My brain starts to process through the shock, and I murmur hoarsely, "Thank you."

Kara gives me a knowing, sad look that borderlines betrayal. She took up for me in the breaktime glade, and now, she knows I've been lying to her for three years. "Go see the Doctor," she replies. "I'll handle the day's deliveries."

I feel even worse, knowing I've disappointed her. Before I can say anything else, she's strode off, leaving me dripping blood and pained tears.

The walk to the clinic takes far too long. Every step jars my injury, and I wonder if my scent is calling predators. Hellbugs roam where they please, after all. When the trees thin to houses, I breathe a sigh of relief.

The clinic is a few minutes' walk, and I open the door awkwardly with my left hand.

The place smells strongly of herbs, antiseptic, paper, and metal. There are dried plants in bundles hanging without any real pattern, blown glass vials of powders and potions, and some high-tech but clearly cobbled equipment against the walls and over the exam table. Everything is clean, though haphazard.

"Just a minute," comes the flat, tight-lipped response to my entry. Through the door of translucent plastic flaps lies the patient room, and I can see Dr. Yewll bent over someone's head. There is a growl, a cry of pain, and the Doctor jerks back a pair of pliers. "Gotcha!" she says triumphantly, tapping the procured tooth into a metal tray.

The human sits up, biting down on a piece of gauze she gives him, and swings off the table. "Arw, dafs bedah."

"Come again?" inquires the Indogen healer sardonically.

"That's better," corrects the man, removing the gauze. "Here," he hands over what is probably a piece of money. "Enjoy."

"Next time someone breaks a tooth in your face, try to see me before it gets infected. Come back soon," snarks the Indogen.

"You're a peach, Doc," replies the patient as he walks through the flaps. "Of course I'll be back. Who else lets me pay them in cigarettes?"

Meanwhile, I've soaked through Kara's scarf and am dripping blood down my elbow, onto the floor. I'm dizzy and vibrating at the sight of all the fluids I've lost. When this fine male specimen presents himself, I blink several times to make sure I'm seeing straight.

Oh, my.

Chief Lawkeeper Nolan, up close and personal. Boots, badge, and swagger. I've only heard snippets from others about him, but the titters of the females do not do his rugged stoicism justice. Haha, justice. I'm punny under shock. My mouth opens spontaneously, "I'd heard there was a new lawkeeper in town. I've never seen you before now, though." _That was incredibly bright, nice work, Betta._

The Lawkeeper shrugs, rubbing his bruised cheek and jaw. He looks like he's taken a significant blow to the face. "Yeah, that's me." He glances at my blood soaked hands. "Um, Doc, you may want to get in here."

I look down, too. There's a pretty impressive puddle at my feet, and without my acquiescence, my vision goes blurry. I have just enough time to berate myself for sounding stupid before the floor pitches up to meet me.

* * *

I wake up on a patient bed, getting my hand stitched up by Doctor Yewll. "Oh, hello," I mutter, clearing my throat. The sensation of the hooked needle and slide of thread are dulled with analgesic, but make my stomach churn.

"Faint at the sight of blood?" she asks, her hexagon-patterned skin reflecting slightly in the fluorescent light.

"Didn't know I did until just now," I reply, carefully not looking at her work.

She reaches for a slice of a gold-colored root, ready and waiting on the table. "Chew this. I won't have you vomiting on my work."

Obediently, I take the coin-sized bite, and a sharp spice fills my mouth. As I chew thoughtfully, I piece together that she's cleaned the dirt off my hand, stitched most of one side, and stopped the bleeding. "How did - ?"

"Nolan caught you before you cracked your skull on the floor and carried you in for me," the Indogen interrupts.

"Oh. How nice," I say, counting the ceiling tiles. Officer Handsome actually touched me? Shame I was asleep for it. "He left before I could say thanks," I realize with a hint of wistfulness.

"You saw his face. He had a concussion to nurse. Not that he ever will nurse his injuries," she replies, clipping the thread. "I only got to take the infected tooth out because Irisa made him get his head checked. So," she sighs conversationally, taking out a small tablet and stylus. "Have you visited me before?" she asks.

"No. Had no reason to."

"What's your name?"

"Betta."

"Last name?"

I grimace. "Just Betta."

"I see. Age?"

"Why? Is it important?"

"With so many repeat customers, it's useful to keep records."

"...Twenty-six. I think."

"Looks about right. What did the damage?" she asks, picking up her suture tools again. "Turn your hand over."

I do as bade, and with a fresh wince as the newest stitches pull. "A digging fork."

Pausing, she glances up at me. "You're the head grower Mayor Nicolette Riordan hired."

Her tone suggests a mix of incredulity. What was she expecting: a man? "Mayor Nicky thought I was qualified," I say uncomfortably. _Three years ago, and this is news now? Color me bemused._

The Indogen pegs me with a look that suggests I snagged this job because no one else would take it. But she says nothing more on the subject.

She swipes more numbing agent onto the palm wound, then flushes the wound with stinging antiseptic out of a squirt bottle. I hiss, but keep my hand over the tray that catches the liquid as it drains. More pink, diluted blood.

"Do you think Mayor Amanda Rosewater will keep you around?" asks Doctor Yewll suddenly.

The question takes me off guard. It's been in the back of my mind for several days that my contract needs renewal. "I certainly hope so. I've been meaning to poke my head into her office and ask to stay on during her term." The pretty blonde mayor has been in office only a week. I've been putting off talking to her because, frankly, I'm afraid of what she might say.

Doctor Yewll pulls a screwdriver-like tool out of her loose white coat's pocket, and activates it with a faint whir and glow.

"Uh, what's that?" I ask, withdrawing my hand nervously.

"It reads your blood for early-stage pathogens," she says with exaggerated patience. "Among other things. Hold still." Tracing the outside of the wound with great care, she seems to take a long time. Around and around the edge of the injury, reading it after the beep, then repeating.

Finally, wondering what the holdup is, I risk a glance at her face. The doctor is frowning, more so than usual, and is reading the hexagon-based language showing up on the tiny screen imbedded in the device. "What is it?" I ask worriedly.

She returns the device to her pocket. "Nothing. It won't tell me if you have an infection. Must be a glitch because you have mixed blood."

I go even paler, if possible, looking at her with certain horror, and can't stop my gasp. "Shh! Who else is in here?"

The doctor hesitates at my reaction. "No one. Why, is your heritage some sort of secret?"

I grind my teeth and look down. "Yes," I bite out. "You can't tell anyone, please..."

"Why would I?" she asks, her objective tone sounding a bit softer-edged.

I search her impassive face for clues, but find no trace of deception.

"You'll need a tetanus shot." Taking up my hand again, she brings the needle to bear and finishes closing my wound. "Sensoths are especially prone to tetanus."

My jerky flail plucks the needle from her hand, and I sit up closer to her face to cry, _"Sensoth?!"_

With a sigh that came from decades of dealing with dramatic patients, the Indogen healer replies, "My scanner showed you're part Castithan, part Sensoth. Didn't you know?"

My mind is reeling. I can't process this. "Check it again!" I demand, extending my hand, dangling the needle. "Again!"

"Calm down, now," orders the pale woman in an icy voice.

I glower at her, but get out of her face.

Satisfied, she pulls the device out of her pocket and moves it around my wound. It beeps, and she reads the screen. Another frown, and incredulity lights her neutral eyes. "Impossible." With a violence I didn't know Indogens capable of, she bangs it against the metal frame of the bed. "Piece of shtako," she mutters.

"It says half-Irath, half-Casti, right?" Never have I wanted confirmation of my mixed blood more.

"Yes, it does," she says. Waving the device again with a look of determination, she barely waits for it to beep.

"What's it reading now?" I ask. The hysteria bubbling up in my chest almost makes this a joke. Almost.

The doctor doesn't answer, wheels away towards a corner cabinet, and takes down a syringe and a few empty vials.

"Doc?" I ask worriedly. "What did it say?"

She returns to the bedside, and arranges the vials on a tray. "This time, it read Liberata. Either my equipment decided to spectacularly die," says Doctor Yewll heavily. "Or there is a _shtako_ton more to you than meets the eye."

I'm stunned. Beyond shock, I bring automatically bring my bad hand to cradle my forehead. The dangling needle and thread tap against my skin. "I can't believe this."

She scowls momentarily, then takes my bad wrist and flattens out my hand. The stitches pull, again. "Can you move your fingers?" she asks.

"Of course I - " I try. I try again. My fingers will not answer my brain's call. "Aw, frak me," I snarl, sitting up in preparation to bolt. "I'm gonna kill that Casti haint!"

"You," says the Indogene curtly, shoving me insistently to the bed again. "Will do no such thing. Nolan will punt your little butt straight to Vegas."

I am distracted from the red sea of rage in my gut by her illustration. "Punt? Like old world football?"

"Exactly." She takes her hand off my shoulder, where she'd been holding me down. "Your anterior metacarpal nerve is damaged. Probably severed, if you can't move any of the fingers."

I want to cry, I feel so rotten. "What are my options?"

"Traditional surgery, which might work."

"What do you mean, 'might?'" I ask with denied hostility.

"It requires considerable recovery time while the nerves fuse, not to mention some of the tools needed are out of my reach, and your budget"

"But!" I snap, twisting the sheet under me with my good hand. "You're a jekking _doctor!_"

"And I'm not your Jesus Christ," she snaps back.

I withdraw moodily for a minute, getting my attitude under control, and the Indogene tacitly starts to draw vials of blood. "Other options?" I ask quietly, carefully.

"Option two is Indogene augmentation," replies Doctor Yewll, replacing the filled vial with an empty one. "But that is, as the humans put it, like trying to find a needle in a haystack. The technology was on the Arks, and only a few cities on this planet have access to it."

"Any more options?"

"Learning to live with one functional hand."

I snort derisively, looking at the ceiling again. "Out of the question."

The silence descends, but my emotions are swirling in counterpoint. "You'll have to forgive my bitchiness," I remark, self-derogatory. "I think this is the longest conversation I've had with anyone in three years."

The doctor breaks the needle with her thumb and tosses it into a corner can. "Certainly the most lively one I've had in years."

"Good news is, I have a reason to go visit Mayor Rosewater, now."

"Why is that?"

"I need to get the town's share of that haint's last paycheck."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Almost another 4k word chapter! I kept saying, "Stop, fingers, stop!" But they, like Betta's, would not obey. In case you wonder, this chapter takes place right after the visit to Doctor Yewll's. Enjoy!**

* * *

Defiance boasts a semi-communist manner of food supply. I am a cog in the wheel, serving the human community with produce, with a little terraformer crossover according to what Earth foods they can ingest. Most alien cultures stick to their own growers, who farm in other places in and around Defiance. I give seventy percent of what I grow to Defiance to distribute as they see fit. The townsfolk take what they need up to a certain fair limit. It is funny how that after the terraformers came, the pettiness associated with the downfall of previous communist systems seemed to disappear. Now they're practically the norm the world-over. I am the largest farm in the surrounding 200 miles, and the biggest human-run farm in 800 miles.

Or Casti/Irath/Sensoth/Liberata - run farm. I'm having a hard time dealing with the twofold expansion of my racial insecurity.

In accordance with the percentage of food given, Defiance offsets seventy percent of the wages I pay my workers and myself (which isn't much better), plus certain expenses I can argue the council into. I am responsible for making the rest from personal sales from a handful of booths in town. That is where my regular deliveries go.

The staple crops are one-off ordeals, and they are distributed from the town's cellars and pantries for months at a time. All in all, this system has worked for Defiance since it first was settled. But truthfully, what I contribute is only about 20% of what Defiance eats.

In addition to what I grow, Defiance imports about 15% of its food, usually stuff grown in the geodesic domes further south. Citrus, tea, and the like are among them. Then, meat hunters and livestock raisers bring in another 20%. Another 25% is grown by dozens of small Irathian, Sensoth, and Liberata farmers in the area who are citizens of Defiance.

The last 20% comes from caravans and travelling food salesmen, as well as the rare farmer that tends land outside the protection of any government. All of these things strike a tenuous balance which, should one fail, would plunge the town into hard times. Should two or more fail, it would mean starvation.

These thoughts wander through my head as I make my way towards Town Hall. I hope that my stake in Defiance's wellbeing will give me some sway in keeping my job. My new sling itches, but I suffer through it upon the Indogene doctor's orders to, "Restrain the injury to prevent exacerbation." She'd also instructed me to, "Get some jekking sleep. It's probably the reason you got hurt in the first place."

Well, there goes my righteous fury at the haint who did the nasty. Perhaps I won't fire him out of spite.

There is a food cart set up on the way, serving a portion of sauced noodles spun around a trident-carved stick. My growling stomach reminds me it's lunch, and I've been under a lot of stress. I splurge and eat out.

Slurping delicately on my meal, I zone out and let autopilot take over. It is best that I try to calm down after the doctor's discoveries. If I can call unsubstantiated technical glitches 'discoveries'. The blood tests she promised to run will rule out any equipment malfunction.

In a way, I almost don't want to know.

The swell of the crowds corresponds to the mealtime, and everyone is throwing elbows. I hiss and draw my injured arm even closer, weaving through the throngs.

I make it to the steps of the city hall with only two bruises. Ascending the steps, I open the heavy door awkwardly with one hand.

The government building is quiet and cool because the stone walls are thick. I wander in hushed, ignorant respect towards the stairwell, hoof it to the second floor, and stride down a carpeted hall appointed with torn and singed flags, old framed documents, and ancient photos of people who probably meant something to the old world.

At the end of the hall is the Mayor's office, one side of the double doors open. Sauntering in like I own the place, I don't notice the Castithan woman at the secretary desk until she speaks. "Can I help you?" she asks in Castithan.

I almost give myself away by opening my mouth to reply. I speak Castithan fluently (and, apparently, dream in Indogene) but most humans don't. Feigning ignorance, I cock my head and say, "Um, English?"

"My apologies," she replies, rising fluidly from her chair. "You resemble one of my race."

The wince nearly makes it to my face. "I get that a lot. Is Mayor Rosewater in?"

"She is not, I'm chagrinned," says the receptionist coolly. "But you may leave her a message, if you so desire." She gestures to a notebook of recycled paper and a pen on a narrow podium just inside the door.

I shift on my feet. I really can't put off speaking to the new mayor about my contract extension. I'm on borrowed time. "Do you have her hailer code?"

The secretary fixes me with a look reserved for an uppity mutant rat. "I am afraid not."

"Of course not," I mutter under my breath. I could try to bribe the slender woman, but Castithans are rather prideful. I turn to the podium, flip to a blank page, and pick up the pen.

"Please conserve the paper," says the secretary, closing a notebook ledger and walking out the door. The swish of her gown feels like a mockery.

Rolling my eyes, I flip back to the previous page, draw a thick, assertive line below the last entry. It is written in Irathian, which I can only speak, not read. Squinting only shows me two familiar glyphs, but I can't place from where.

It occurs to me as I put pen to paper that I have three options for speaking; Irathian, Castithan, and English; but only one for writing; Castithan. Writing isn't a huge hairy deal in this town, unless you're important. This messaging system might be a way to weed out the riffraff. If you can write, chances are you're someone worth listening to.

I guess the Ice Queen secretary will have to translate for me, if Mayor Rosewater can't read it.

_Hello, Mayor Rosewater._ As good a start as any.

_My name is Betta, and I am the head grower under your predecessor, Mayor Nicky. I would very much like to continue my career during your service to Defiance._ Direct and to the point. This woman has little time for beating around the bush.

_A copy of my contract is undoubtedly filed somewhere in your office..._ True, the place is kept clean and fairly uncluttered, but there are a lot of file cabinets.

_..and I would be willing to take a continuation of the terms it describes, although I hope for a little renegotiation. _Like, for instance, a change in living arrangements.

_Please contact me as soon as is convenient to discuss._

After listing my hailer code, I cap the pen and leave the office.

It's around time for my crew to deliver, so I meander my way to the traditional first stop on the delivery route. The first booth is situated in an off-branch of the merchant's corridor, taking up a narrow alley all on its own. In the shadow of the buildings the produce stays fresher longer, which is why I staked my claim there. With the addition of a heavy fabric roof, the sun and rain never touch the goods.

"Sayal," I greet the ancient Irathian woman warmly. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

She scowls up at me from cleaning a display bin and snaps, "What's so lovely about it?"

Let me be clear: I'm not Sayal's friend. I just enjoy egging her curmudgeonly attitude on. She's the barest minimum of tolerable to customers, but being an elder in her tribe, she gets a lot of repeat Irathian customers. Unlike my field workers, I prefer to keep the same booth staff for the customer base they garner.

Sayal's scraggly red-brown hair blows in the breeze as she come out of the booth with a container to start filling the display. The produce is fresh, but I ask to confirm, "Did I miss the delivery crew?"

"Yes," she replies curtly, gently transferring apples to the display. The white marks on her brow and shoulders have faded from white to yellow with age. I lend a hand, literally, a single hand. This sling is really cramping my style.

We empty the entire bin in silence before she motions at the sling and asks me gruffly, "So what happened to you?"

I sigh, the visit to the doctor coming back harshly. "Well, I - "

"Nevermind, I don't know why I asked." Sayal walks back to her position behind the tables and grabs another bin.

With a chuckle, I shake my head and help her unload bundles of kale. What she means, in her brusque way, is that I need to not think about what's bothering me. Internalize and neutralize.

"Thanks, Sayal."

"Get lost."

I do as bade with a too-cheerful wave, which garners me a rude gesture from her calloused hand.

The next stop on the delivery route is at the entrance to the mostly Castithan borough. The stand is set up like a three-walled tent in the full sun, just inside that invisible line that makes the neighborhood turn from Defiance into Little Casti. There are no customers just yet, but most of the white-skinned people stick to the custom of buying just before mealtime. They tend to like the tatsoi, bokchoy, mizuna and such, so I stock mostly leafy greens. This adherence to tradition allots for the stand to be manned only a few hours a day, with a specific amount and type of product.

"Radiksa," I greet the Castithan man who is minding the bins indolently. "Has the crew been by yet?"

Radiksa is chatting with another Castithan man in clean white working clothes. My employee turns slowly to answer me, like I'm embarrassing him in front of his peer. "Yeah, they left a couple of minutes ago," he replies.

I really don't like his attitude. Or the fact he's not setting up the booth. "Then why isn't the produce out yet?" I ask, using my Boss Tone. "Not to mention sitting in the sun?" Lifting the lid on a bin, I show the sadly wilting mizuna.

Radiksa looks a little pissed and his friend snickers something to the idea of, "You're whipped."

To lighten the atmosphere and ease the sting, I roll my eyes and address the friend in self-deprecating Casti, "Not whipped, just irreplaceable. We both know you wouldn't buy from _me._" A Hail Mary over the cultural walls...

The friend looks stunned to see a human who looks vaguely Casti actually _speak_ Casti, but then he throws back his head and roars with laughter.

Me and Radiksa join him, and the tautness dissipates. It is a blessed release of tension for me, and I thumb my eyes under their lenses. "Radiksa, who's your friend?" The conversation is now entirely in their native tongue.

"Zwasitso, this is my employer, Betta."

_"Religwo, Zwasitso," _I use the traditional greeting. In their world, women do not speak to men. As a friendly human and an entrepreneur, I can wriggle my way past that to _almost _the same social level. All the same, respect is in order.

"_Religwo, Betta._" He replies with a nod. I sense no falseness in the sentiment. Radiksa moves away to start setting up (finally, the little shtako).

"Your name means 'cook' or 'chef', right?" I ask. "Is it an indication?"

Zwasitso looks pleased at my question, and draws himself up straighter. "Yes! I am the chef-owner of Veraho restaurant." 'Veraho' means 'day' in this language, and the overarching, all-encompassing name fits, for it's a place of high repute where a lot a the town's heavy hitters go.

A shiver goes up my spine. "I've heard of your establishment! You are much beloved by your people."

The chef preens a bit. "To have my fame travel as far as the human community heartens me greatly, Betta."

Human, indeed. If he only knew what transpired in the Doc's office, he'd flip more than skunkdog steaks. "Now," I draw closer, within teasing distance. "Make my day. Tell me you buy my food to cook at Veraho."

His eyes light up with a flirtatiousness that mirrors mine. "Of course! My clientele have come to recognize the fusion of human and Castithan cuisine as unique to Veraho. In both cultures, freshness and quality are paramount. Where else can I get this sort of green delight?" He walks around to the front of the booth and hefts a head of pakchoy, which is nearly five pounds.

"You flatter me, sir," I reply bashfully. If I were witnessing this exchange from the outside, I would be internally retching at the mutual stroking of egos. But this is an opportunity for the almighty networking. I can never have too many business acquaintances.

"Likewise, good lady," he smiles. "You must stop by my restaurant soon, Betta."

My face shows my delight. "Really? I would be honored!" I would never make it through the front door without the chef-owner's invitation, so I'm naturally excited. Radiksa makes a derisive noise that only I hear, but I ignore him.

"No, no," insists Zwasitso, capturing my hand to kiss it. "It would be _my _honor." When he drops the hand, a piece of paper folded like a sun remains. I assume it is my ticket in.

I fill the chef's cart with way more than he buys, and he rattles off. When I look back at my booth, Radiksa is staring at me strangely.

"What are you looking at?" I ask Radiksa, tempering it with a grin.

"Nothing!" he blurts, scratching the back of his head. "It's just that... I didn't know you spoke Castithan. Or that..." He trails off.

"Or, what?" I prompt, rearranging some bundles of arugula.

"Or that you were so friendly," he final admits.

I snag a bruised turnip from the pile and take out my knife to remove the blemish. Again, the arm sling betrays me, and I set the white root down to make the cut with one hand. "I'm full of surprises, Radiksa," I reply, biting into the sweet root. "Keep that produce cool, _bodhako._"

He looks proud at my addressing him as 'fixer'. "Yes, Betta."

Striding off with a new spring in my step, I head out to my third produce stand. This stand is set up about a hundred feet inside the shield generator that protects the town from nearly everything: most recently, the Volge invasion attempt. I situated it there to capitalize on the traders than come through regularly. The traffic in this part of town is hectic, and a lot of things move in and out of Defiance past my booth. Out of all my stands, it's by far the most profitable.

This is where I catch up to my crew, and just in time to watch Raoul, one of my human workers, deck fellow human Mateo to the ground.

"HEY!" I bellow, breaking into a run. As I dash closer through the startled and withdrawn crowd, Raoul straddles Mateo and starts to pummel his face. He's shouting in a language I have heard only enough of to identify: Spanish, a tongue now dead except between Latinos like the ones struggling on the ground.

"RAOUL! STOP!" I roar, trying ineffectively to drag him off Mateo. My sling finally comes loose, but my fingers are still frustratingly unresponsive. Dammit, he's not listening, shrugging off my feeble attempts. I look over my shoulder and holler, "MAMELLO!"

My main Sensoth worker drops the cart he's lugging, strolls up, grabs Raoul by the scruff of his neck, and tosses him off Mateo. As the orange male squares off to keep the livid Latino from returning to the fray, I kneel beside Mateo, who is struggling to sit upright.

"Aw, shtako, Mateo. Your nose," I murmur.

The tan man winces and spits a mouthful of crimson blood, then raises his thickened voice to respond angrily to Raoul. I catch one word out of the rapid-fire spiel: 'loyalty'. This infuriates the other man and almost spurs him past Mamello's defenses. The Sensoth bundles him into a bear hug and lifts him, struggling, off his feet.

Kara appears at Mateo's opposite shoulder. "Shouldn't you be at the doctor's?" she asks with a hint of breathlessness, sounding surprised but not displeased.

As I refasten my dangling sling and steady my breath, I reply, "Came and went."

"Well, what's the verdict?" she prompts, using a spare scarf to bind Raoul's bleeding temple gash. How many of those does she have?

I ignore her question because I'm not ready to talk and instead help Mateo to his feet. "Can you walk, Mateo?" I ask gently.

He nods heavily.

"Then go home and get cleaned up," I instruct him. "That gash looks nasty. If you need a day or two to heal, I'll make sure you still eat, alright?"

The Latino is obviously pretty dazed, but he can't meet my eye (lenses, whatever). Well, his eyes are tearing profusely with the broken, gushing nose, so it'd be no use anyway. "_Gracias,_" he replies hoarsely, and stumbles off. I meet Cathy's gaze, point at her, then point to Mateo. The human woman bobs with understanding and comes alongside Mateo, supporting him.

With the injured party accounted for, my tone turns to Canadian piss on stainless steel. "Mamello, take Raoul into the NeedWant, sit him down, and _keep him there. _I'll be by shortly."

"Yes, Betta." The Sensoth lumbers off with a now resigned Raoul in his bear hug.

The rest of my crew is encouraging the crowd to move along, and as the pace of the populous resumes, they return to offloading bins into the booth. I feel something tickle my back, and with a gasp, realize my hair has come down. Some little Irathian kid is pointing at me and babbling away in interest, probably thinking I'm related to him somehow.

Damn my attachment to this feminine feature! I quickly wind the bun back up, but my stick is missing somewhere under the sea of feet. I frantically paw through the dust and come up empty. Just as I spin around to start over, my head bumps into a pair of shins stuck into... military boots?

"Looking for this?" asks a male voice above me. It's Chief Lawkeeper Nolan, extending a calloused and strong hand with my delicate little stick in it.

I rocket to my feet and back up a pace. "Oh! Um, I..." I stammer, shaking at how exposed I feel with my flamboyant red hair showing. "Thank you," I mutter. Even as I take the stick back, I realize that I have only one working hand. I can't hold the bun and apply the stick at the same time. How frustrating!

"Here," says the Lawkeeper, retrieving the stick again and twirling a finger.

My mighty blush makes me hasten to turn around. He threads the stick securely and tugs down the kerchief's point to hide it. "There, good as new," he says.

I reach up to feel his handiwork as I face him. "Thank you. Again." I must be red as a beet, because he grins, making my heart stutter. Oh, good Irzu... "Did you see the fight?" I ask. What's he doing here, anyway? Bumping into each other twice must be some kind of cosmic joke, with me as the punchline.

"Yeah, from the other side of the street," he indicates the NeedWant. "You had it under control by the time I made it over, though." He sounds mildly impressed. "Do your employees always fight like that?"

"No," I reply, frowning. "I'll get to the bottom of it, though. You can bet your badge on it," I promise darkly.

"Do you want me to arrest him? Give him some time to cool off?" asks the Lawkeeper, planting his feet in a casual stance.

I look at him quizzically. "You're asking?"

"Yep."

Although it'd make me feel better to put an asshole in the clink for a few days, I finally say, "No. He's got five kids to feed. I'll handle him."

Lawkeeper Nolan shrugs, no skin off his back at my decline. "Glad to see you got patched up," he gestures to my hours-old sling.

I sigh. My bum hand already elicits a distinct reaction from me. "Yeah. And thanks for not letting me hit the floor."

"Happy to help," he replies with a warmth in his eyes. Their color reminds me of dark coffee: the real, tasty stuff. "What's the damage?"

I find that I'm more willing to tell him than Kara, and I can't make heads or tails of it. "Nerves are severed. I either undergo cheap surgery, or I magically conjure an Indogene neural augmentation."

The man winces. "I'm sorry."

"Them's the breaks. How's your concussion?" I ask, deferring attention. "Doc Yewll mentioned it."

He chuckles, sidling like he's not used to anyone asking about his health. "'S fine. But it was easier to get it checked than get the silent treatment from Irisa."

I laugh. "I get that. How'd it happen?"

His grin is at once boyish and dangerous. "Got in a fight with a Bioman."

I giggle. I can't stop myself. "Did you win?"

He winks. "Bet your badge, I did."

"Betta, we're going!" calls Kara.

"Alright!" I call back. "I've gotta go," I say, disappointed that can't stay and talk to this sweet, _fine_ looking man.

"Shouldn't you be taking it easy?" he asks. It's one thing for me to be concerned about him, he's handsome as hell. But he for me...?

"Shouldn't you, Lawkeeper?" I shoot back.

He laughs. "I'll get all the rest I need when I'm dead. And just Nolan, thanks."

"Fine. Then I'm just Betta."

To temper the cliché, he smirks and says, "Would you look at that: we have the same first name."

A young Irathian girl with a serious expression and array of knives walks up, getting his attention while eyeing me with neutral quizzicality. "Nolan, we've got to - "

"Yeah, Irisa, I know," he interrupts with a reluctant sigh. "See you around, Betta?"

I take the chance to return his wink. "You've got to catch me in the act to arrest me, mister."

"Challenge accepted," he replies with a tick of his brow, a predatory smile, and a brush of his gun holster.

I traipse towards the NeedWant in a cloud of endorphins.

* * *

"You're an idiot," declares Irisa as she and Nolan climb into the Lawkeeper Charger.

"And I'm _your_ idiot," replies her surrogate father, firing up the vehicle.

The Irathian girl scoffs, but lets it go.

Nolan activates the lights on the hood and rolls down the street, thinking about soft, red hair and sunglasses.


	5. Chapter 5

To do what I have to do, I brush off the glittering fog that enveloped me from talking to Lawkeeper - oops - 'just' Nolan.

The NeedWant is in a lull, with only a few diehards around drinking, by themselves and quiet. I let my eyes adjust to the windowless place, but decide to keep my sunglasses on to discipline an employee.

Mamello is standing next to Raoul, who is slumped in a corner chair cleaning the blood off his knuckles with a wet towel. The Sensoth's heavy hand is on the human's shoulder.

"I got it from here, Mamello," I say, taking an authoritative stance. "Unless you've got more fight in you, _Mister_ Raoul." The human honorific is indicative of how deep his trouble is: I call my employees by their first name, and they me, to foster trust. Ergo, trust has been broken.

The effect is as desired: the man stiffens, but shrugs off Mamello's hand.

"If you go now, you can catch up with the crew," I tell the Sensoth. "Thank you." It's a dismissal that while not icy, is definite.

The orange-furred male walks out, leaving we 'humans' alone.

I slide into the seat across from Raoul. "Care to tell me what happened out there?" I ask, letting significant acid tinge my voice.

The Latin holdover continues to meticulously clean his knuckles, shaking his head.

"You are not a _jekking _child, Mister Raoul!" I say sharply. Older than me or not, respected field leader or not. "Now answer me."

"I don't want you to quit!" he says desperately, flinging down the rag.

My confusion evicts the sternness from my expression. "I'm sorry, what?"

Raoul looks at the ceiling like he can't believe my stupidity. "You get hurt," he indicates my immobilized arm. "And not an hour later see the Mayor?"

"Whoa, whoa," I insist. "Backup. You saw me go into the government building?"

"_Si. _Yes."

"I went in to ask for a job _extension,_" I clarify. "I don't want to leave yet, either."

The Latino looks sheepish at his misjudgment. "Oh. I see."

There are bigger things at work here than a need for discipline. "First, why do you care if I leave?" I'm genuinely bemused.

He fidgets, looking down at his hands. "You are a good boss. I can't count how many times you've sent food home with me for _mi familia."_

"You're an excellent worker," I tell him simply, allowing the praise to settle. "Second, why did you deck Mateo?"

He sits back in the chair, but looks embarrassed. "He said he wanted you gone. I just... lost it." His eyes flicker up to my shaded ones. "I am sorry."

It explains Mateo's lack of eye contact, but I'm not ready to let Raoul off that easy. "How did you see me go into the government building? Your route had already taken you past there, what, ten minutes earlier?"

"We stopped for a minute to let..." his mouth clamps shut like he's been electrocuted.

The reaction makes me suspicious. "Account for yourself, Raoul. Why were you loitering at the gov building on my scrip?"

He flinches when I bring the pay into it, but I still have to strain to hear him. "Because Kara had to run into the Mayor's office."

I can feel the color starting to drain from my face, but ask the question I know the answer to, anyway. "And Kara was there to what?" Those two characters I saw in the message entry above mine - I had known them from somewhere! - had been Kara's signature.

It all comes together as the supremely uncomfortable Raoul confirms, "She was asking Mayor Rosewater to hire her for your job."

The realization settles on me like Atlas's burden. My right-hand woman, my damned employee, was going above my head to ask for my job. "Oh, hell, no," I mutter, anger filling me. All this talk about me leaving my position doesn't just have to do with my injury. She's been _planning_ this, garnering support from the other workers, waiting for my contract to expire. "Son of a bitch!" I exclaim softly.

I get up from the table roughly, my chair falling back to clatter against the wooden floor. "You," I hiss, leveling a finger at him. Raoul cringes at my rage. "You very nearly lost your job today, Mister Raoul, even if it was in my defense. If I see or hear about you breaking faces on _my _timeclock again, your ass is booted, clear?"

"Yes, Betta." he replies, thoroughly cowed.

"Take the rest of the day off," I demand. And with a holy passion, I turn on my heel and stride out of the NeedWant. My boot heels feel like anger-embodied earthquakes rattling up my legs. I am a goddess of flame and fury.

Kenya is descending the staircase from the upstairs brothel rooms, and she notices my purposeful pace. "You look like you're gonna roll some heads," she comments, sounding a little worried.

I snort with righteous fury. "You have no idea."

* * *

The deliveries are done by now, and all my employees have returned to their homes. For a moment, I stand under the inverted bicycle awning of the NeedWant and consider my next course of action.

I need time to calm down, think this all through. But I'm feeling my titanium balls right now, so I decide to go for a double-header today. After all, I did promise Mateo I would bring by food.

Even if he is a two-faced turncoat who is egging on a regime change.

Wandering out of town yet again, I get lost in thought. Kara, the closest thing I have to a friend outside of Kenya Rosewater, is jockeying for my job. Her opportunistic move belies careful planning. She's been biding her time since my predecessor quit and I took over, waiting for her chance.

The little shtako.

I look down at my slinged arm, trying despondently to move the fingers, but finding only poignant numbness and the stinging tug of stitches. Even if I could have gotten a contract extension before my injury, I would never get one now. A handicap does not a boss make.

"I need this job," I whisper to the forest, tears welling behind my lenses. _How will I eat? How will I make money? How will I _live?

The farm appears before me, and I momentarily shrug off the pain to arrange my route. I leave dusty footprints in the onions, slinging a laboriously braided truss over my shoulder. Moving on to the peppers, I find a few and pocket them, including the spicy thin ones Latinos seem fond of.

On my knees in the Asian greens, I come to realize with yet another sigh that I am out of carrying capacity. So I thread the straps of my sling through several heads of tatsoi and reattach it like a bandolier of vegetables.

"That should be enough for a traitor," I mutter. The sun is starting to descend as I make my way out of the fields, through the woods, and towards Mateo's residence.

The darkness of the set sun hides many things: shadows bent over syringes, bodies writhing together in the dark alleys, intimidating groups of people who eye me up hungrily. The slums are tough for someone with vegetables hanging off their body. I get a lot of strange looks, catcalls, and rudeness, but at least they don't know I'm so stunningly mixed in blood.

Come to think of it, I should stop by Doc Yewll's tomorrow, to check on my blood test results.

Mateo and his six _familia_ members live in a single room of what used to be an old hotel. The third floor is mostly Latinos or their immediate descendants, and judging by the foreign language of the graffiti on the walls, they are keen on their heritage.

I can't remember which room is Mateo's, so I knock on number 305 and wait.

The door extends the span of its chain, and a quartet of shockingly thin fingers wrap around it's edge. "_Si?" _Comes the quiet, suspiciously scared female voice.

"_Como - eh... _Donde _estas Mateo?_" I ask, wringing my knowledge out.

The door closes long enough for the chain to scrape free, then opens scarcely more to show a bird-skinny Hispanic girl with haunted eyes. "_Mateo es _there," says the young woman, taking in my array of vegetables with distant, hollow interest. She points one door down.

"Delsia!" A man's angry voice comes from inside the dark room, and the tiny woman flinches. I squint into the dark to see a man laying on the bed, clothed in his underdress like the two have been interrupted. He's way too old to be her husband.

It clicks in my mind. This woman - Delsia - is a whore.

When she looks back at me, she scans my expression for judgment.

I've got about five seconds to implement my pity and the lingering righteous anger of my issues. I may not be able to fix my own problems, but I can try to help someone else. "Wait," I say quietly. Unwinding the smallest head of tatsoi from my sling's strap and groping in my pocket for a couple hot peppers, I extend them. "Here, take them," I continue softly. "Free."

Delsia looks at me with confusion that breaks my heart. She can't be more than eighteen: has no one ever given her something without expecting in return?

"Go on," I insist.

Slowly, like she's expecting me to withdraw the offer, she takes the produce from my hands. Glancing over her shoulder at her impatiently sighing client, she starts to close the door. "_Gracias," _she says, barely more than a whisper. And then chains slides home again.

With a forceful exhale, I run my hand over my face. It was on my lips to offer her a job with me. Only soon, I won't have that power.

Knocking on 606, I hear a plethora of childrens' voices and an adult female presumably shutting them down. The door opens to the extent of the chain, and I see Mateo's blackened eye. "Miss Betta? What are you doing here?" Then, over his shoulder, _"Ay, silencio!"_

"Here's some stuff to tie you over until you can get back to work," I say, thrusting the heads of tatsoi at him with restrained hostility. "No matter _who_ is your boss."

Mateo's unswollen eye goes wide as he figures out what I mean. He looks even more ashamed than Raoul had been when I reamed him. "Betta, I - "

I shut him up with the truss of onions off my shoulder. "I don't want to hear it. Goodnight, Mateo."

Briskly walking across the balcony and down the stairs, I ignore his repeated calls of my name. He has nothing to say to me.

I get less attention, now that my load is gone. Avoiding the drug dealers on the corners is harder, because they zero in on my sling and assume I need drugs to take the edge off. I am offered, in rapid succession, Adreno, Kannabis, and Swing. None of them appeal for heartache and worry.

When I finally make it back to my area of town, then my semi-safe street, then my house, it's past dinner time. My door closes and I'm blessedly alone, sagging wearily against it. The silence and privacy of my room envelope me in comfort, and I strip off my coveralls and boots in record time. The undershirt left allows my pale skin to breathe well, as does my underwear.

I'll have to scrub the bloodstains, which, until now, I hadn't realized I was walking around with. Thumbing a dried blotch, I mutter, "No wonder people have been taking me seriously all day."

I'm hungry and tired from walking and worrying all day, so I decide to raid my stash of jerky and properly diluted absinthe. "Dinner of champions," I toast the empty room, plopping into my Chair. My feet practically cry with relief when I plunk them onto the footstool.

Finally. Good Irzu. Alone with my freakishness.

Chewing thoughtfully, I reason aloud, "I'm not out of a job yet. I need to cool my jets." But my heart knows that soon I will be. I chase the thought with a sip of the booze in my cup. "I'm going to visit Mayor Rosewater again," I decide aloud. "Beg and plead, if I have to. And if that doesn't work, I'll have at least a week's notice to line up a contingency plan."

I feel better having figured out a plan of attack. I pick up my knitting, only to realize that my craft is beyond my capacity. "Stupid hand." Flinging it back into the basket vents my lividity. After nursing several glasses of fluids in stony simmer, I yawn and ready myself for bed.

Then my foot goes through the floor.

"Argh! Dammit!" I shout, extracting the limb from the sudden hole. The skin of my ankle is peeled back shallowly, but there's no injury. A string of multicultural expletives leaves my mouth. From what I can see, the wood was weak to begin with and the hole is over the hallway of the level below. I should be grateful I'm not looking into someone's home.

For several minutes, I just stare at the hole in my floor and consider which god of which race hates me so jekking much.

I'm too tired and it's too late for this shtako. Dragging a rug over the hole from my kneed position reminds me of bumping into Nolan's boots.

The recollection makes me feel iridescent inside. Climbing into bed, I feel a ghost of a smile twitch my lips at the remembrance of his fingers grazing my neck, putting in my hair stick, his warm smile. _At least one nice thing happened today, _I think as I doze off.

My dreams do not agree.

_Darkness. Terror. Pinpricks of light, the Gulanee._

_A veritable snowstorm of lights swirling around me, agitated, jostling each other. Beings and their collective pieces, scattered but cohered by will and the need to RUN._

_A blinding flash, and a boom so deafening that my ears can't register it. With a careen, my vision changes, and I'm suddenly looking at a supernova of what used to be a gaseous planet. Wave after killer wave of radiation and explosion, flattening whole hemispheres of the other planets around it, wobbling in fast-motion towards the sun it once orbited. It is enveloped by the burning licks of the sun, and the fiery orb surges in size, darkens in color. The other planets collide with each other in their haste to answer the sun's call._

_Planets shouldn't move that fast. Eyes shouldn't behold this tragedy, this power, this cosmic occurrence saved for God, the audience of One. Everything about it insists _wrong, impossible, not happening.

_There is a soundless scream from thousands of voices that pierces my soul, my marrow, my atoms, rending my skull. Am I me or them? Stop, stop, make it stop. Horror and unimaginable pain echo around me, in me, through me. My head will split, my heart will burst, my bones will melt, please, STOP..._

_In the silence after, I float is mindless agony, feeling disjointed, disconnected. The cold flickering brilliance of stars too far away is the only movement. The pinpricks of light have flung themselves far and wide. I can feel them connecting their pieces by the barest threads, and slowly, slowly starting to move. They all move in the same direction, an exodus of a nation across eons. _

_The silence is almost worse than the scream. _

* * *

I wake up sobbing and reeling. I was halfway across the galaxy: how am I here in my sweat-soaked bed on this tiny planet? My mind was just split into facets by a multitude of beings, the Gulanee: how am I alone in my skull once more?

There is nothing left to do but curl into a heaving ball and be wretched.


	6. Chapter 6

As I walk to work the next morning, my brain is on fire and my heart feels like bites were taken out of it.

"I've established these dreams are real," I address the last star on the horizon. "But are they past or present? Maybe future?" Of the three, I would gander a guess at 'past', because the Votanis Collective ArkBuild Fleet was something instigated before the Pale Wars. It was how the Votans GOT to Earth. Thus, past.

I look away to turn a corner, and when I seek the star again, it's gone.

"That's settled," I murmur, weaving through my familiar route. "But how in the three hells am I dreaming of the past? Provided it is, in fact, real. There's always a chance it's not, and I'm just bat shtako crazy."

I feel bat shtako crazy. Only one hand works, and it's throwing me off horribly. I feel unbalanced in my head, like those planets that wobbled on their axes towards their sun, their protector and provider who betrayed them and swallowed them whole...

On the subject of betrayal, I have more immediate concerns to address today. Namely, the swish of skirts and scarves that I see climbing the steps to the government building.

"This early, huh, Kara? Ya little traitor," I chuckle venomously. "Let's see what you're up to. A follow up visit to the good Mayor?" I crack my neck and trail her. The office of Defiance's ruling body is as good a place as any to have a confrontation.

The musty, cool halls hung with dead faces and useless documents and sad flags welcome me hushedly again as I tail my employee up the stairs. Waiting for Kara to make it all the way into the mayor's office, I slide through the door and pad down the hall. I'm now out of sight behind the shut door of the pair, and Kara is standing not ten feet into the office.

"Mayor Rosewater?" comes the Irath's voice. She sounds like such a go-getter.

"Yes?" comes the incumbent mayor's voice, softly accented as the scent of roses she is named for.

"I'm Kara, I left you a message in your notebook yesterday...?"

"Oh, yes! Come in, come in." There is a shuffling of papers. "Forgive me, it's still early."

"No apologies, madam mayor," says my employee - EX-employee! - graciously. "You bear your burden well. Not that it means much, but I was in support of Mayor Nicky's decision to appoint you, you know."

A flattered laugh. "Well, thank you. What can I do for you today?"

_Now pretend to be reluctant, that's right, _I think with a sneer, removing my sling and pocketing it. I don't want to appear weak, not here.

Sure enough, there is a pregnant, fidgeting pause. "Well, you see, I work under Betta - "

"The head grower from Nicholette's term," surmises Mayor Rosewater.

Another pause, laden with unintention, while I smirk behind the door. "Yes," says Kara. "She has recently - "

"Discovered her employee's conniving ways?" I interject, stepping around the door. Striding past my dumbfounded employee, I come to the surprised Mayor's desk and extend my good hand. "I'm Betta, Mayor Rosewater. It's a pleasure to meet you."

The pretty blonde who looks nothing like her sister in the NeedWant swallows her surprise and shakes my hand. "Likewise, Betta."

I can feel Kara fuming behind me. "What are you doing here?" she asks, barely controlling her tone.

"Funny," I reply, turning. "I ought ask you the same thing." Any semblance of friendship we once had evaporates as I meet her violet eyes coldly. For the first time, I think, my mismatched gaze spears her with no sunglasses to temper it. She is physically restraining her flinch, but bristling as her race's hot blood boils.

I'm counting on the Mayor not noticing my eye colors.

"Care to fill me in, ladies?" snarks Rosewater.

"I've been made privy to a turncoat's manners," I explain smoothly. "It seems my employee has vying for my job, before my contract was up for renewal. Now that it is lapsed, she is keen on stealing it."

Kara steps up to stand beside me, anger radiating like the supernova from my dream. "I have every right to interview for a job vacated!"

"Indeed," says Mayor Rosewater objectively. "She does."

I'm momentarily stymied by this turn of events. "Madam Mayor, I thought I was clear: Kara has been going behind my back to secure this job for herself. She has been undermining my authority for weeks. I have people who will attest to her defamation of my character long before my contract - "

"Is that true, Kara?" asks Rosewater.

"No," comes the simple and sure reply. "I have not."

I very nearly lose it. LIAR! "I can produce the witnesses, Madam Mayor."

Kara snorts. "Like you produce pink blood, half-breed?"

My entire world rocks. I literally stumble back a step. My ears are ringing. I think I might pass out. _Oh my God, she just... in front of the mayor... my secret... I trusted..._

"Whoa, whoa, Betta," says the Mayor, making calming gestures and standing. "Breathe, breathe."

I gasp like a fish out of water, my vision going purple and silver, then clearing. The smug face of Kara nearly makes me throttle her.

"Now, I don't know what kind of secret your mixed blood it supposed to be, Betta," soothes Rosewater. "But I can assure you it has no bearing on the current situation."

Kara seems a little put out by the lack of impact her ace-in-the-hole garnered. "I have proof!" she tugs one of her many scarves free and holds it out. A few drops of my blood stain it, probably from when Kara came close to bind my bleeding hand.

"That won't be necessary," replies the blonde. "I have no way of knowing whose blood that is, anyway. The contention point here is whether or not Kara acted unethically in pursuit of this job." The Mayor comes from behind her desk and walks to the notebook on the podium at the door. Flipping back a few pages, she finds what she's looking for. Then, wandering to a file cabinet, she peruses a few documents until finally, "Ah, here it is. Your contract, Betta, expired three days ago. Kara did not breach ethics in that way, at least. And as far as the defamation goes, I am not a civil court, nor does this age and time lend itself to petty pursuits."

I want to argue, but Kara took up for me in the breaktime glen that day. Even as she was planning a coup, she insisted I was telling the truth about my heritage. Then, not days later, I proved her a fool with the color of my blood. It makes sense to me, now, why she beelined for the Mayor's office the day of my injury.

I glance at Kara again. She looks livid but gratified. There is a shadow of betrayal in her violet eyes. She'd taken my word, and it'd bitten her. Apparently, this breaking of trust goes both ways.

I'd always known my heritage and the lies I tell to protect it would backfire spectacularly.

Rosewater sits at her desk again, steeples her fingers, and eyes us both critically. "I prefer to make my decisions based on the capabilities of the people. Clearly, I need to fill the position of head grower, and the two appliers for the position are standing in front of me."

I square my shoulders. "Then chose me for the contract renewal, Madam Mayor. I have proved myself in this job, time and again. I have much more to offer Defiance."

"Chose me, please," says Kara, facing the desk. "I have trained under not one, but two head growers. I have more experience than Betta. Plus," she steals a sideways glance. "I have use of both my hands."

Frak me sideways. That little _enyasho!_

The Mayor frowns and looks to me. "Betta, are you injured?"

There's no sense in lying. "Yes," I grit out. "A day ago, I injured my hand."

"How badly?" queries the blonde. "Can you hold a tool? Carry things?"

"I don't know yet," I admit. "I haven't been back to work to find out."

The Mayor moves a small wooden box, intricately carved, to the middle of the desk. "How about picking this up?"

_Fingers, don't fail me now. _Stepping forward, I extend my bad hand. The stitches are black little puckers on both sides, and I try to flex my fingers. They won't grasp the box. I try again, to no avail. My heart sinks and I try a third time, squeezing an inch of height from the desk, but then the box drops from my hold.

The Mayor sits back in her chair slightly, and I can feel the pleasure rolling off Kara. "Betta, how can you work with only one hand?" the blonde asks carefully.

Struggling to answer, I say, "A little slower, perhaps. But no less!"

"How can you lead your team without example? Or justify your pay?"

"I can - "

The final nail in my coffin comes firmly. "Would _you_ keep someone on the payroll who could only do half the work?"

I see the train wreck coming, and can't look away.

"Let me go on record for saying that your heritage makes no difference in my decision," says the Mayor. "For _either _of you," she clarifies, sternly eyeing Kara, who wipes the smugness off her expression. "That said, I'm giving the job of head grower to Kara."

All my breath leaves me in a whoosh. I distantly hear Kara step forward to shake the Mayor's hand in thanks, prattling on in gratitude, assuring Rosewater of the correctness of her choice.

I have no response, save for mute horror. I feel like I'm back in my dream with my psyche being ripped to shreds by thousands of screaming voices.

* * *

I don't know how I make it out of the building. I don't remember exiting, walking, stairs: none of it.

When I come to my senses, I'm running down the trail to the farm, whipping past the tall trees, boots grinding the path.

_Wrong._

_Impossible._

_Not happening._

I can't go to the fields. Seeing my ex-employees' faces would terminate me, send me flying across the cosmos like so many of the Gulanee who haunt my dreams. Are those Gulanee dead now, like I wish to be? Are they scattered amongst the nebulous remains of their home? Turning in mid-sprint, I enter the forest.

_Why? Why did I have to lose my job, and a huge chunk of my identity along with it?_

_Why am I enslaved to senseless, meaningless dreams that torture and pain me?_

"WHY?!" I howl, feet moving ever faster.

The forest echoes back my torment, and I run through blurred vision. How long, I don't know. My body doesn't tire easily, thanks to the Irathian influences.

_Why am I so messed up on an atomic level? What sick, cruel twist of fate made me what I am?_

My hair has come down again. Lawkeeper Nolan isn't there to put it back up.

Run, run, run. Fleet-footed, far, fast. A symphony of the parts of my body left working. Dodge trees, leap fallen trunks, startle a herd of goats.

Wait a minute: goats?

Something whacks me on the back of the head, and I go down. With my face in the prickling pine offcast and vision rapidly fading, the last thing I see is a pair of dirty feet and the end of a walking stick, both of which are somehow familiar.

* * *

I'm not unconscious for long: I can tell by the texture of the light that spears into my eyes when they open. I'm braced against a tree trunk cushioned with thick moss, overlooking a tiny glade where goats are grazing. A small pit of coals sits smoking in the middle.

Aside from the back of my skull having a throbbing lump, and my hand still being completely numb, I feel fine. The stickiness of dried salt on my cheeks reminds me why I was running, and what brought it to a sudden halt.

There is a sweet, grassy breath in my hair that causes me to flinch in surprise.

A brown, floppy-eared goat is chewing moss above me, and casually bleats as it turns and walks away, tin bell jangling.

"Deerik," I mutter softly in Irathian. "Tell me that's you?"

"Hello, Betta," comes the bassy reply. The shepherd comes into view, carrying a stack of firewood. "Such a pleasant surprise to see you."

I groan and sit up straighter. "Then why'd you clobber me?"

"That, too, was a surprise," Deerik admits, offloading the wood into the fire. "Of a decidedly unpleasant nature. Your hair was down and you were moving so fast, I simply reacted."

"Sorry to shock you," I apologize.

"Don't be stupid. I'm the one who hit you." With the fire fed, he comes to kneel next to me. He is in a hard-lived outfit suited to someone with no home for much of the time, the most distinctive aspect of which is the whole sheep's pelt he uses as a warm cape. The head of the dead animal retains the shape of its face, and it sits atop Deerik's bare skull like a bizarre crown, the color matching his face markings. He is barefoot, but more sheep pelt serves as leg warmers and bracers for his arms. The hair growing on his chest and limbs is significantly grayer than I remember. When I'd sat by the night fire and painstakingly learned Irathian from him, his hair had been like sun-baked red clay.

"Imagine running into you, all the way out here," I comment, my chest thawing.

"Irzu smiles," replies the Irath. His gold eyes and gentle fingers probe the injury he caused. "How long has it been: four years or five?"

"Four and some change, I believe," I reply, wincing as he applies some kind of salve from a tin in his bag. "Long enough for you to switch to goats."

"Sheep were stupid," he gripes. "I lost one every week to this predator or that. Not like goats. No, they're tough creatures." One of the female goats prances closer, lovingly lipping at the ear flap of his sheep hat. Deerik pats her head, strokes her side affectionately, and she moves on, satisfied.

"I see," I murmur. It explains his outfit. "They look healthy."

"I'll be making a selling run to Defiance in the next month," he replies proudly.

"How's the wife?"

"Croau is happily running me ragged," Deerik replies. "Every time I come back from grazing the meadows with the herd, she's got a few more kid goats to add to it."

"So she's still in charge of the birthing?"

"Yes, we keep the pregnant ones at the house now, so Croau doesn't have to be on the road with me. It's easier to protect them, because they move slower." He sits cross-legged next to me, hands on his knees. "Croau misses having you around. Her hands are getting old."

I pick at the pine needles under my hand, shredding them. "I'm not much help, either, right now."

"Last I heard, you were the head grower for Defiance."

"I am. Or, I was." I draw my knees to my chest, fighting back fresh tears.

"Oh, no," he moans, digging in his bag for a sheepskin flask. "Sounds like something went wrong."

I nod mutely, taking the extended flask and swigging liberally. The burn of alcohol distracts me, but it's low-grade compared to what I distill. "It's too damn sad to talk about."

"Not true," he counters, swigging for himself. "It has to do with your hand, does it not?" he indicates my stitches. "What happened?"

I stumble to start with, but like a crack in a dam gets bigger and bigger, soon the story is pouring out of me. The job and all it entailed, creatively hiding my secret heritage, the Gulanee dreams (which I'd told him about when I worked for him, and now can clarify) and how they've worsened, my fears of being crazy, the injury, Doc Yewll's equipment malfunction, Kara's betrayal, the electricity with Nolan, the Mayor's decision. I let it all vent, lapsing into tears, drinking to counteract them, then blundering on.

When I'm done I feel empty. Deerik's gold eyes are intensely staring from above his wide nose bridge. "By the gods, Betta," he says incredulously.

I hiccup from the booze and look blankly at the fire, which has risen to a flaming lick on the fresh wood. It reminds me of the dream sun, flaring and devouring those planets. I shiver.

Deerik brushes a strand of brilliant red hair behind my ear, and I am comforted. He and Croau always treated me like a daughter. "Your cheeks are sunken," he chastises. "Here," he withdraws a shingle of dried meat from his bag, handing the whole thing to me.

"You need it more than - " I start to protest.

"Betta, eat," he commands gently.

I do. My appetite roars to life, and I enthusiastically gnaw off pieces of the jerky. It occurs to me that I've been eating less and less since the dreams got worse. "Thank you, Deerik," I murmur, humbled. My face starts to move, and I realize a smile is hinting. "It tastes like..."

"Sheep?" he offers, eyes twinkling. "Like I said; stupid creatures."

I laugh and nearly cry again, because it feels so good.

When I've eaten every shred, the Irath shepherd says, "My people believe in Irzu giving the gift of Sight to those with great destinies."

With a wry look, I say, "I'm dreaming of Gulanee, not Irathians."

"It matters not who you dream of," he clarifies. "But _what_."

I don't believe him. "What great destiny could I, a mixed-breed and class-A screw up, have to garner attention from Irzu? I don't even specifically believe he exists!"

"You don't have to, for him to use you," says Deerik.

He's full of shtako, friend or not. My thoughts must show on my face, because he continues, "Will you at least look into it? I ran into a group of Spirit Riders a few weeks ago. They had a priest of Irzu amongst them. Sukar was his name. Their leader. Just consider the possibility."

Frowning, I shrug and sip from the flask. "I know of the Spirit Riders: they've been assimilated and are now citizens of Defiance. They helped fend off the Volge attack a few weeks ago. Honestly, I'd rather be able to blame some god for these dreams than an irrepressible insanity. I'll look into it."

There's a chance he's right. There's a bigger chance he's wrong. In my gut, this doesn't feel like the hand of a deity reaching down to shove prophecy down my throat. It feels big, yes: but more like it's a movie I keep catching glimpses of. It feels designed, but not cosmicly ordained.

Why not rule it out? Can't hurt.

"Good."

"Dreams aside," I croak. "What about the Doc's discoveries? There's no way, _literally no way, _I could be a mix of so many different species!"

"Bah," shrugs Deerik. "You're getting upset over something completely irrational! The doctor said it herself, it was the equipment. You're simply worried because you're already of two races. Paranoid!"

When he puts it that way, I realize how freaked out I was over something so unfounded. "You're right," I agree, feeling part of the weight lift off my chest.

He covers my hand with his own calloused one, grinning. "Though I think you are decidedly more Irathian than Castithan, thankfully."

"But...I'm out of a job. I can't procure another one until my hand gets fixed. I'm utterly screwed."

Now it's Deerik's turn to frown. "What in the world do you mean? You're resourceful."

"I can't use a hand! You tell me, what does that equate to in this world? It makes me a sheep," I finish angrily. The flask is too light in my grasp. I glare into its depths, and as I do, a drop of the clear liquid drips from the mouth.

A thought seizes me with great force. "Wait a minute." I gasp as hope blooms in my chest. "Deerik, that's it!"

"What?"

"I can distill my booze and sell it! I'm sure Kenya would buy it from me, the stuff is strong as Sensoth farts! She could make a killing, and I could make a living!"

Deerik laughs his great, booming laugh. "There you go, Betta!"

I scramble to my feet, handing him back the flask. "I have to go. I have just enough light to get home by, if I hustle."

"And as for this Lawkeeper Nolan person," interjects Deerik, grabbing my arm to ensure I listen. "Why not explore that, hmm? You need to loosen up the hold you have on your secret. Life is miserable enough without looking over your shoulder."

"You're right," I reply gleefully. "Maybe losing this job was for the best. Now I can be freer." I don't have to worry about my employees judging me and bucking my authority, with she-who-shall-not-be-named spurring them on. "For the love of Irzu, the Mayor knows I'm mixed!" I exclaim. Pecking Deerik on his grimy, rust-colored cheek, I lope off, hollering, "Goodbye, Deerik! Thank you! Stop by and visit sometime, please!"

"Goodbye, Betta! I'll try!"

The forest closes around me, and I run even faster than before, born on the wings of renewed hope.


End file.
